


White Knight

by LJMouse



Series: Gifts & Prompts [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, Porn IS the plot, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 20:03:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9254300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LJMouse/pseuds/LJMouse
Summary: A request from a friend who wishes to remain anon for reasons.Among the Necrobot's returnees is one little white jet. Drift is delighted, but it's another swordsmech among the crew who catches Wing's interest.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [An Anonymous Friend (You Know Who You Are)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=An+Anonymous+Friend+%28You+Know+Who+You+Are%29).



> So I said that Cyclonus and Wing would make a cute couple, and an anon-friend commissioned me to write it. Minor warnings for sticky towards the end, and for a ton of angst.

The Autobots had not recognized most of the Necrobot's "returnee" Cybertronians. A few were significant to the Autobots, but most were not, and since the unknown also had unknown factions, loyalties, and motivations, they were viewed with suspicion.

After his incredibly boring briefing, Ultra Magnus had shepherded most of them into a large, empty, storeroom on a lower level of the fortress. There, they clustered in small groups or sat alone, most looking shocked and disoriented. Nobody was guarding the door, but the returnees were unarmed, and the Autobots were bristling with weapons and edgy from battle. None had been stupid enough to venture out of their unofficial cell.

None until now, at any rate.

Cyclonus, on his way down the hall to find a flat place to recharge, found a small white jet standing in the doorway. He hadn't noticed this jet before; he was short, lightly built, and he had likely been lost amid the bigger and flashier mechanisms around him. He was beautiful, in a classical sort of way, with white armor and sharp lines, but the rest of the returnees were a riot of colors and frame types and most were bigger than the jet.

The jet's armor was of an ancient design. He had an empty sword mount on his his back, and empty scabbards at his waist, and he moved with the quiet confidence of a skilled warrior. Cyclonus stopped short, as the jet stepped calmly out into the hall, appraising him warily. The jet was a martial artist if he'd ever seen one; that much was clear just from the way he walked.

"We are all low on fuel," the jet said, voice bold and firm.

Cyclonus sighed. "Didn't Rodimus ..." of course not. Nobody, much less their esteemed leader, had thought to offer fuel to anyone. The Necrobot's fortress had ample supplies of energon, but they'd still left the newcomers starving. "Come. I will show you where the energon is."

"Thank you." The jet said. As Cyclonus turned, he added in surprise, "You ... bear a Great Sword?"

"Hnnh." Cyclonus said, neither an agreement nor an explanation.

"Your design is ancient." The jet hurried to keep up with him.

"So is yours," Cyclonus pointed out.

"I'm not as old as all that. Though you ... you are."

"Yes." Cyclonus agreed. He added, "You are a Knight."

Rodimus would need to know about this. The Knight might know where his kin had gone.

"Yes, I am." The jet flashed him a grin.

They turned a corner, and arrived at the fortress's common room, where there were energon dispensers, couches, and a mob of the Light's crew. Cyclonus headed for the dispensers; the jet stopped short.

Cyclonus followed his gaze, and spotted Ratchet and Drift. Cyclonus was bemused by the body language between Drift and the medic. They were bickering about something, but standing in each other's fields as they did it. Drift's armor and Great Sword were clearly those of a Knight, so at first, Cyclonus just assumed that was what had caught the jet's attention.

"Drift!" The jet shouted. "Hey! Drift!"

Drift jerked around. His eyes widened, and an expression of comic disbelief crossed his face before he replied with a thunderous shout of, "WING!"

Cyclonus had never seen Drift react quite that way to anyone. Drift bolted across the room, threw his arms around Wing, and hugged him fiercely. "Wing!" Drift said, in a tone of disbelief. "Wing, you're alive ...?"

"... yes?" Wing replied, then he took a step back and regarded Drift with a smile. "You look good." The smile abruptly vanished, as Wing spotted the badge Drift was sporting. "You're an Autobot now?"

* * *

  


Drift's Wing was alive.

Drift's joy ws contagious. Ratchet found himself grinning as the two embraced. Drift, he thought, needed friends who were not Rodimus, and Wing had been important to Drift. That Wing was alive was a miracle involving a briefcase and a meddling mechanism with a remarkable flair for a dramatic, but Ratchet wasn't going to complain.

Then the little white jet stepped back, and regarded Drift with a grin. The grin disappeared from his face with swiftness, and in a disapproving tone, he said, "You're an Autobot now?"

Drift visibly bristled. "It's complicated, Wing. The war is over, and ..."

"... so I hear, and if the war's over, why do you need to join a faction?"

"Because my friends are Autobots."

That wasn't a particularly good reason, Ratchet thought, and apparently Wing felt the same way. "... and what happened to your Decepticon friends?" Wing asked.

Drift glanced across the room, obviously seeking someone out. He spotted Megatron's hulking silvery grey form. Wing followed that gaze, clearly did not recognize the former Decepticon leader, and gave Drift a puzzled look when Drift said nothing.

"Some of the Decepticons are Autobots now too," it was Cyclonus who spoke, surprising Ratchet. The ancient warrior was usually a mech of few words. Cyclonus continued, "As Drift says, it is a complex issue, and I would suggest you not rush to judgement. There is much you do not know."

Wing blinked up at Cyclonus, then to Ratchet's surprise, he nodded once. "Fair enough. Drift, we should talk."

Drift was probably about to give some enthusiastic response when Rodimus bounced up. "Drift, I need you for a second!"

"Rodimus, this is Wing," Drift said, ignoring the Captain's request.

"Wing?" Rodimus said, a bit blankly, though Ratchet was absolutely certain Drift had mentioned Wing to Rodimus on many occasions. Drift made no secret of his past, either the good or the bad, and was happy enough to talk about any of it. Wing was his mentor, inspiration, and hero. Drift talked about him a lot.

Sudden jealousy clenched at Ratchet's spark. He wanted Drift to have friends, but what if Drift wanted more than that from Wing? Damnit, how could he compete with Wing?

"Wing," Drift repeated, and he sounded a bit hurt. "My Wing."

"Your Wing?" Wing said, with a laugh. "I'm 'your Wing' now?"

Drift elbowed him playfully. "I talk about you a lot, okay?"

Yeah, Ratchet thought, Rodimus really should recognize that name.

Rodimus didn't. "Someone you knew before, huh?"

"Yes." Drift said, tone very neutral. "He's my friend."

"Cool. Look, I need to talk to you about some stuff." Rodimus clapped Drift on the shoulder. Ratchet knew Drift assumed Rodimus had some sort of important business to discuss. That might or might not be true; it would be just like Rodimus to find an excuse because Ratchet also expected that Rodimus intended to apologize and beg for forgiveness from Drift, simply because he wanted his favorite hippy spectralist samurai sidekick back. Roddy would sound sincere, and they would make up, and Ratchet found himself gritting his teeth at the thought.

Drift gave Wing a long look, one full of emotion. Rodimus totally missed, or ignored, Drift's emotional state, and fidgeted impatiently. Drift said, "Wing, we have a lot to catch up on. We'll talk later. Will you be okay?"

Ratchet could hear the craving in Drift's voice to go talk to Wing, to whom he owed so much, but Rodimus was waiting impatiently with arms crossed and field flaring with anxious energy.

"Why wouldn't I be okay?" Wing said, "I don't think there's any threat to me here."

"Er, no. Not usually. Uh. Stick with Ratchet. Or, uh, Cyclonus, if Ratchet is busy, I guess ..." Drift glanced up at the other swordsmech, who gave an unreadable grunt. "You don't mind, do you Cyclonus?"

Cyclonus lifted one optic ridge up. "Should he need protection, I am available."

Ratchet tried to hide a snicker with a cough, and didn't quite succeed. Cyclonus was an absolute master of deadpan sarcasm. Drift, despite being unarmed and lightly built, just did not seem like a mech who needed babysitting. He moved with the catlike grace of a warrior, and he had an air of easy confidence and steady competence.

After Drift had - reluctantly, and with a few glances back - followed Rodimus away, Drift let out a long, slow ventilation. "He thought I was dead, I take it?"

"You were dead," Cyclonus said, and then he cast a sharper than usual glower after Rodimus, "and Drift cares about you deeply, I believe."

Wing frowned.

"Come." Cyclonus gestured in the direction of the energon dispensers. "Let us get fuel for the others."

* * *

The medic, Ratchet, had a huge number of casualties to treat. Therefore, Wing found himself alone with Cyclonus, carrying an armful of energon cubes back to the others.

"How long have you been with the crew?" Wing asked, glancing up at the tall purple mech.

"Several years. Since the beginning." Cyclonus looked intimidating, but Wing didn't think he was nearly as scary as he appeared. His field was steady, and his body language more neutral than aggressive. He could doubtless be dangerous, but he wasn't frightening.

"How fares Cybertron?" Wing asked.

"Badly." Cyclonus was also not someone who minced words, or wasted them.

"We feared as much."

"They work to rebuild it. They may yet succeed." Cyclonus replied, then palmed the door open and made and an after-you gesture for Wing.

It took several trips to fuel everyone, even after Cyclonus and Wing drafted a few of the other "returnee" mecha to help. A small white Autobot with a blue visor also joined them; he was clearly Cyclonus's friend, and though he was only big enough to carry one cube at a time, he had a hoverboard that could float more. He stacked a bunch of cubes on the hoverboard and pushed it in front of him.

"I know what it's like to wake up and have lost a bunch of time!" Tailgate told them. "Six million years for me. I missed the whole war and then some!"

Wing found he liked the mech, who seemed very young despite his vast age. His enthusiasm was contagious. "So how do you like the crew of the Light?"

"Buncha my buddies!" Tailgate said, happily. "Everybody knows me. It's great!"

Cyclonus rumbled, "... and some of them are even your friends."

Some, Wing mentally translated, weren't. Tailgate, however, seemed oblivious to that subtext, and pronounced, "And you're my best friend, right Cyclonus?"

They were, Wing thought, an odd pair. They seemed to be exact opposites in all ways. Cyclonus replied simply, "Yes. That is true."

Tailgate beamed, said, "Yeah!" and then ran ahead, pushing the hoverboard of energon cubes before him.

"He's adorable," one of the other returnees said, with a grin, in a low voice.

Cyclonus growled, "And hurt him and I will tear you apart."

The returnee -- a tall and slender flier with kibble indicating he might be a seeker -- took a step away from Cyclonus, putting as much distance between them as the corridor allowed. "Easy, big guy. No touchy the kid, I got it."

"Tailgate," Cyclonus added, "can defend himself."

Wing thought it wasn't physical threats that Cyclonus was worried about. He was building a rather favorable mental assessment of the warrior, overall.

The hilt of the Great Sword that Cyclonus carried glinted in the lights of the corridor. He wondered what the story was behind the sword. Cyclonus wasn't a Knight, but he'd clearly bonded with the sword.

Interesting.

* * *

  


Cyclonus, along with Tailgate, made sure the returnees were settled in with energon and other necessities, because nobody else seemed inclined to do it. Wing, who had somehow ended up the de facto leader of the group, followed him back out into the corridor with a cube in hand, after everyone was fueled.

"Do you need assistance with your wounded?" Wing asked.

Cyclonus grunted skeptically, then elaborated on the grunt. "Are you medically trained?"

"Minimal, though I do know some basic field medicine. All Knights have some training. However, you lot have been through a Pit of a battle," he'd noted every mechanism he'd seen had battle damage, "and I am well rested and uninjured. I imagine Ratchet could use the manual labor."

"Yes." Cyclonus agreed, "Come with me."

* * *

  


Somebody's energon was on his face.

Ratchet wiped at the fluid, and then realized he had primer on his hand. He had just managed to smear primer across his cheek, without actually removing the energon. He growled impatiently, then resolved to deal with it later. He needed a complete repaint anyway.

"Here."

It was the little white jet. Wing handed him a solvent-soaked rag, then, when Ratchet had mopped his face off, Wing took the rag back and walked across the room to deposit it in a fireproof bin. Rags contaminated with energon had a tendency to ignite all on their own, and there was a specific container for them in every med bay, but many inexperienced mecha ignored it in favor of just chucking them into a trash can.

Wing then retrieved a mop, more rags, and a bucket from the supply closet, filled the bucket with solvent from a tap, and headed for the biggest puddle of energon in the room. He started mopping without a word.

Huh. Not what he'd expected a Knight to be like.

Howevere, Ratchet had far too much to do to question the unexpected help. Megatron was next up on his roster of mechanisms needing massive repairs, and working on Megatron was never easy thanks to Shockwave's experiments.

* * *

  


Three surgeries later -- Megatron, Whirl, and Brainstorm -- Ratchet stopped for energon. He was ready to drop, but there was more work to be done.

The med bay was spotless. Wing had worked tirelessly, long after everyone else had left, and everything was clean and organized. He'd found the fortress's storerooms and had restocked supplies and medications; Ratchet, glancing over at a cart, noted that Wing had also brought extra surgical supplies. He had a lot of repairs yet to do, and Wing had made a very good estimation of what he would need.

He needed a break, though. Ratchet dropped into a chair, clapped a hand over his optics, and told himself he could rest for five minutes.

Wing, currently wiping a berth down with a strong antiseptic, padded over. When Ratchet looked up, the jet was holding out a cube of warmed energon.

"You," Ratchet said to him, "are officially my favorite person ever."

The energon was flavored with an unusual blend of minerals: it was both sweet and salty, with a hint of arsenic and the spicy addition of sulfur. It probably wasn't good for his filters, but the energy and trace elements it provided was welcome. He sipped it, then said to Wing, "Thanks. This something that the Knights come up with?"

"It is a recipe from Theophany, yes."

"It's good."

"Thank you." Wing smiled. "Do you have any other critical surgeries?"

"Critical?" He shook his head. "No."

"I believe all the patients are stable," Wing said. "I can watch over them if you wish to recharge."

He wanted to recharge. Desperately. He didn't know Wing, however, and he hesitated. Nobody was likely to need medical intervention, but several of his patients were vulnerable due to unfinished repairs, and if Wing proved to be dangerous ...

"I will help," Cyclonus said.

Ratchet startled. He hadn't even heard the tall purple mech enter the med bay.

"You'll stick around?" Unlike many of the Autobots, Ratchet trusted Cyclonus. The mech wasn't exactly warm and fuzzy with a spark made of kittens and flowers, but he'd proven himself several times over. He was a friend.

"Yes." Cyclonus said. "I will ask Tailgate to assist Wing if I am needed elsewhere."

Now that was unexpected. Cyclonus was just about the last mechanism that Ratchet would expect to play nurse.

"You need recharge," Cyclonus said. "We need our medical staff at peak performance in case we find ourselves in another battle. I am more than capable of assisting the injured while you recharge, Ratchet."

Apparently, he'd let his skepticism reach his field. Ratchet huffed. "Fine. Alert me immediately if Megatron rouses from recharge or if Whirl's sedation wears off."

"We will do that." Cyclonus assured him. "Recharge, Ratchet."

* * *

  


Drift didn't manage to get away from Rodimus until Rodimus recharged, which took time -- the captain was always manic after a battle. First Rodimus had apologized (and Drift thought Rodimus had learned something over the last few months, based on what he'd said.) Then they'd taken an inventory of weapons, and assessed the team's ability to defend itself should the need arise.

At Drift's suggestion, Rodimus had interviewed several competent-looking Autobots among the Necrobot's returnees, and then put them to work guarding the fortress.

Also at Drift's suggestion, Rodimus had sent Ultra Magnus to recharge. Magnus had resisted, but ultimately Rodimus had won. Ultra Magnus followed orders and Rodimus had made it an order.

Rodimus had spent some time with the team; he'd asked Drift to come with him, even when Drift had mentioned his desire to speak to Wing. ("You can do that later. He's not going anywhere. I need you to help me make sure everyone's okay.") Rodimus had spent a few hours circulating about, checking in with everyone and drinking Engex and being social.

They'd checked on the fortress's defenses again, and then on the rescues, and then Rodimus had returned to the bar and consumed more intoxicants. The result had been loud and increasingly wild celebrating.

Drift, desperately exhausted himself, finally convinced Rodimus to recharge, but only because Rodimus was too drunk to remain vertical. He'd hauled Rodimus off to a recharge slab in a random hab suite by the simple expedient of slinging the captain over his shoulder and walking off with him. Rodimus had passed out the moment he was horizontal.

Still completely sober, Drift then went in search of Wing.

Somehow, he wasn't surprised to find Wing in the med bay. Ratchet was nowhere in evidence, Velocity was recharging on a gurney in a corner, and Wing and -- of all mechanisms -- Cyclonus -- were on patient babysitting duty.

Wing and Cyclonus were seated on chairs in a corner, and they were talking in low voices.

That Cyclonus was being friendly to Wing at all surprised Drift immensely. Cyclonus was normally the sort who said little, chatted never, and brooded with great intensity. He was antisocial, angry, and dangerous. Drift couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Cyclonus talk more than absolutely necessary with anyone who wasn't Tailgate. So why was he talking to Wing now? He didn't even know Wing.

Drift approached, both bemused and confused, and overheard the tail end of a comment by Cyclonus. "... foolish decisions, and he is often rash and impulsive," Cyclonus was saying, "... but Magnus and Megatron are moderating influences on him, as is Drift."

Both looked up at his approach. "Drift," Wing said, rising. "You look exhausted."

He was exhausted.

"Go, recharge. We'll talk when you wake." Wing smiled at him.

He hesitated, then nodded. "It is ... good to see you alive."

As he left, Wing and Cyclonus returned to their conversation. The deep rumbles of Cyclonus's voice were a counterpoint to the calm tenor of Wing's.

* * *

  


Weeks passed. The returnees settled in, or departed. There were a few fights, some drama, and Nutjob being Nutjob. Wing stayed, both because he was intrigued by the crew and because nobody was heading in Theophany's direction.

The fortress had a gymnasium, and Wing lay claim to it quickly. Aside from Cyclonus and Drift, and Megatron, he was the only person who had any extensive formal martial arts training. It quickly became his domain.

The first time he arranged for sparring matches, he drew a crowd.  
  
".... augh!" Drift cried, as he went crashing to the floor with a tremendous bang. He'd just landed outside the circle that Wing had chalked on the room's floor, too, so that meant by the simple rules that Wing had laid out, he'd just lost the round. Wing smirked. Drift was good these days, and he had definitely kept up his studies, but Wing knew he was still the better fighter.

The rules for the sparring matches were as simple as Wig could make them. Touch the ground outside the circle, or get pinned, and you lost. Harm your opponent beyond minor dents and scratches, and you lost. Interface equipment, optics, and dataports were off limits for blows. There were no other rules.

Wing was eager to spar against different fighting styles, as his options on Theophany had always been limited to the other Knights. He'd already put Whirl down half a dozen times, Rodimus twice, Perceptor once, and had nearly lost to Ratchet himself before pinning the medic ... which hadn't surprised Drift all that much, actually, though it had impressed the rest of the crew. They'd expected Ratchet to win.

Drift, somewhat reluctantly, had then volunteered. He knew he was going to get his aft handed to him, and he didn't especially enjoy it.

Wing, grinning, offered Drift a hand back up. "You still leave yourself open too much."

"Most people I fight against are not you." Drift protested. He glanced at the crowd, not entirely happy to have his failure witnessed. The others thought he was some sort of elite ninja super warrior. Against Wing, he looked like a rank amateur.

Ratchet was watching -- and his grin matched and exceeded Wing's. He was enjoying this, the slagger. Rodimus and half the rest of the crew were witnesses, too. Whirl was bouncing up and down and chattering excitedly at no one. Tailgate gave Drift two encouraging thumb's up.

Cyclonus, looming towards the back, had no visible emotion on his face beyond his usual expression of a dour scowl. Rodimus called it a resting bitch face, but Drift wasn't sure that was applicable if the mechanism in question genuinely had a foul disposition.

"Again?" Wing offered.

Drift straightened up, and held a hand up, "Not tonight. Perhaps one of the others might want to spar with you?"

"Me!" Tailgate said, instantly, and the others reacted with laughter.

"This'll be interesting," Ratchet folded his arms. Then he added, "Tailgate, don't damage him. I've got enough work to do."

Wing, to his credit, didn't react with skepticism. He simply stepped back from Drift and invited the minibot into the ring with a gesture. Tailgate's visor flashed with bright good humor and he bounced forward. He rubbed his hands together, then bent over in an exaggerated fighter's stance.

The first time they grappled, to nobody's suprise, Wing went flying. Tailgate was impossibly strong, and Wing had not been expecting the little mech -- who only came up to his thigh -- to have that level of power. Wing hit the ground outside the wing and rolled to a stop in a flurry of movements that ended with him standing and facing the minibot.

He blinked in obvious surprise. Tailgate pranced around the ring with his hands in the air. Cyclonus, who had moved forward in the crowd, rolled his optics.

"Outlier," Ratchet supplied for Wing's benefit, with a smirk.

Wing fluffed and settled his armor, then said pleasantly, "Another round, Tailgate?"

"Your funeral," Tailgate said, with what was probably supposed to be a menacing growl.

Wing re-entered the ring, and Drift noted that he was balanced very differently this time. Before, he'd clearly been expecting to grapple with an opponent with a much lower center of gravity, and had consequently been crouched down when Tailgate had first rushed him. This time, he stood with his arms loose, and feet wider apart than Drift was used to seeing.

Tailgate charged.

Wing stepped aside, neatly caught him by his cowl, and lifted him up off his feet at arm's length.

Tailgate sputtered in indignation, and thrashed, but Wing simply stood there with Tailgate in one hand. Due to his frame design, Tailgate couldn't reach Wing's hand to pry it free, and his legs weren't long enough to kick out and reach the Knight. He thrashed for a minute in indignant outrage, then slumped in Wing's hand, as he was totally unable to free himself.

Cyclonus facepalmed.

While still holding him aloft, Wing made a gesture like he was shooting a blaster through Tailgate's spark with one hand, then said, "Yield?"

"Yield," Tailgate said, a bit sullenly. "You guys don't fight with guns, though."

"Yes. Most of the mechanisms you fight with do, however, carry ranged weapons. I," Wing set Tailgate down, then said cheerfully, "I would like to spar with you regularly, Tailgate. You have a great deal of potential, and it's not often I get to practice with minibots. It would be good for both of us."

"Really?" Tailgate's field lit up so that everyone in the room could detect it.

"Really," Wing assured him.

"I would spar with you," Cyclonus said, causing every head to turn in his direction.

"Ooh, I wanna see this!" Tailgate chirped, and hurried back out of the ring.

"Rust stick?" Rung offered, nudging Drift.

"Oh. Yeah." Drift happily accepted one, and nibbled on it for a second as Cyclonus walked out into the ring. He said, "This is going to be good."

"Mmm. A shanix on Cyclonus to win the first round," Rung offered.

"Oh, you're on." Drift had sparred enough with Wing to know to never underestimate him, particularly in unarmed hand-to-hand practice. "Rewind, you're recording this, I hope?"

"I'm always recording," Rewind replied. Then, to his conjunx, he said, "Domey, pick me up. I want a better vantage for this."

The two circled each other, Wing moving with calm strides and Cyclonus with catlike grace. Then, as if on some unseen signal, they both moved forward. They exchanged a flurry of blows, and then Cyclonus deliberately flipped over backwards and took Wing with him. Wing twisted free before Cyclonus could throw him out of the circle, and landed on his feet, spun, and tried to tackle and pin Cyclonus before the taller mech could get back up.

They rolled across the floor, neither going outside the circle, both grunting with effort, before they parted and rose. Cyclonus had a dent on one arm, and Wing had some scratches on his chest, but otherwise, they were remarkably uninjured. Drift knew that not injuring one's sparring partner took skill too.

This was just for fun. Neither was trying to hurt the other. By their expressions, both were enjoying this immensely. Wing had a huge grin on his face. Cyclonus, who was physically incapable of smiling to any significant degree, still had a bright light in his optics.

Down they went again, with neither managing to pin the other. Tailgate whooped loudly, urging Cyclonus on. Whirl shouted something to Wing about 'make me some shanix baby!' Ratchet just shouted appreciation in reaction to a particularly difficult and skilled series of moves.

"I had no idea Cyclonus could fight like that," Rung said, in obvious awe.

Drift found he wasn't particularly surprised. You didn't survive to be many millions of years old without some skill.

He didn't quite see how it happened, but suddenly Cyclonus went down with a little less control than usual, and Wing ended up on top with a knee to Cyclonus's throat and one of Cyclonus's legs caught in his hand. Pinned, Cyclonus struggled for a few nanoclicks and then relaxed. "I yield."

Wing offered him a hand up. "That was most enjoyable. You nearly had me several times."

Cyclonus's lips twisted into something resembling a smile. "It is good to have a talented sparring partner. My duty shift starts in a few moments, but I would like to repeat this with you later."

"Of course." Wing beamed at him. "Next time, you might actually beat me. That doesn't happen often!"

Wing made it sound like he wanted to be defeated. Maybe, Drift thought, he did. Wing was weird that way.

* * *

  


  
Cyclonus's next duty shift was with the security team, and the usual miscreants miscreated. At the end of his shift, he was tired, splattered in purged engex (one of the crew had apparently found a stash), covered in mud (the drunk had gotten lost outside, and this was how Cyclonus had discovered the planet had weather that included rain, and subsequently mud), and his joints were sore (he'd had to carry the drunk home, over his shoulders, which was _how_ he'd gotten purged Engex down his back.)

All he really wanted was the wash racks. After depositing the drunk in the brig to sober up, he'd headed there immediately.

The hot solvent felt amazing when he stood under it, and he let it flow over his frame for an indulgently long period of time. Then, he began fastidiously washing every crevice and cranny he could reach. Unfortunately, the drunk had vomited right down the middle of his back, and he found himself struggling to reach some spots even with a long-handled brush and spray wand.

Minibot footsteps echoed over the sound of spraying solven. The wash room door opened; he glanced back to see Tailgate padding in with a bucket of supplies in one hand, and an oversized shammy in the other. "Need some help?" Tailgate said, "Nutjob said you got barfed on. He thought it was funny."

"Assistance would be appreciated," Cyclonus said, after a moment's hesitation. Only Tailgate would even think to offer in a situation like this; cleaning purged Engex off a friend's back was guaranteed to be unpleasant.

As if reading his mind, Tailgate said cheerfully, "Trust me, I've dealt with worse yuck. Waste disposal bot, remember?"

"Hnnh."

Tailgate tugged at the edge of his tasset, the armor that protected his thighs, and said, "Kneel, will you?"

He knelt, and Tailgate quickly got to work. The little mech, of course, couldn't help but chatter as he did. "... Your plating's getting dull. I've got some wax if you'd like, I could polish you up when we're done here. And I can hear your hips grind when you walk. You ought to talk to Ratchet about getting the joints refinished. Don't they hurt?"

"Hnnh. I am fine, Tailgate. I am old; things wear out. I am not due yet for a refit."

"Okay, okay. But I'd like to see you all shiny and stuff, you know? Your purple looks dull right now, but it would be a gorgeous color if it was shiny." Tailgate's small hands, clutching wads of mesh, probed under his armor and along his backstrut. "Geeze, you've got purge all up under your armor. Gross, what did he do, upchuck his entire fuel tank?"

"I believe so."

"You'd have been forever getting clean by yourself. Probably would have had to take your armor off to get it all." Tailgate patted his back with one small hand. "Glad I can help you with this. Next time, you should just call me. I'm always happy to help you, Cyclonus. You're my friend."

He said nothing, as he found friendship a difficult subject to talk about, but Tailgate didn't seem to notice. "Oh, hey, you've got a frayed neural line here. I've got some tape, I can tape it for you, then you can see Ratchet in the morning ..."

WIth surprising competence, Tailgate quickly repaired the wire, then clapped him on a shoulder pauldron. "All done! C'mon, let's get dried off and then I'll wax you."

He didn't remember agreeing to the wax, but it was hard to say no to Tailgate. He knew if he did, Tailgate's feelings would be hurt, and he didn't want that. So, resigned to his fate, he followed the little white minibot back to their quarters.

Still chatting happily, Tailgate directed him to sit on his berth, then climbed up after him and got to work. Cyclonus let the words flow over him, occasionally grunting an answer when Tailgate paused for a question.

Tailgate rubbed the wax on with efficient speed, and Cyclonus slowly relaxed. He wasn't keen on being shiny, but Tailgate was clearly enjoying himself, and that was what mattered most.

The little minibot was humming cheerfully as he worked. Cyclonus recognized the tune of one of the ancient songs they'd practiced together, and he started singing along. Tailgate, who had a pleasant and clear singing voice, joined him.

He did enjoy spending time with Tailgate. He'd even admit it, if anyone asked. Tailgate was his friend, and he treasured that friendship.

Tailgate finished rubbing the wax on, and grabbed a chamois to polish it. Cyclonus tried not to frown at the degree of shine on his armor. He could literally see his reflection. It was really not his style, and mecha -- Whirl, Rodimus, even Ratchet -- were likely to comment obnoxiously on his new look.

"It's such a pretty color!" Tailgate chirped, as he stood with a foot on either side of Cyclonus's legs so that he could reach the front of shoulder pauldrons. "Bend your head, I need to finish your horns."

He complied, and Tailgate applied the soft fabric to his horns and helm. The minibot seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time now, fingers sliding slowly over the smooth metal. Puzzled -- was there something wrong, some pitting or corrosion he was unaware of? -- Cyclonus looked up.

Tailgate was looking at him with an intent blue gaze from behind his visor. "Hi," Tailgate said, voice a bit breathless, and Cyclonus wasn't sure why. What was the mech thinking now ...?

"Hnnh," he replied, with more than his usual reserve.

Tailgate traced a finger down his jaw. "You look good."

"Tailgate." Cyclonus could feel a curl of interest in Tailgate's field now. He spoke as flatly as possible, letting no emotion into his voice. "Are you done?"

Tailgate didn't take the hint. Instead, he plopped down in Cyclonus's lap, short legs straddling Cyclonus's waist. He pressed his body to Cyclonus, buried his face in Cyclonus's plating, and said, "You smell good."

There was definite arousal in Tailgate's field. Tailgate reached up with his hands, and rubbed Cyclonus's pauldrons and -- while Cyclonus stared down at him in something approaching horror -- he arched his back and pressed his interface panels to Cyclonus's crotch. Tailgate's panels were heated.

Cyclonus planted both hands on Tailgate's chest and shoved. Tailgate hit the ground with a clatter of armor and a startled yelp.

"Cyclonus!" Tailgate scrambled back to his feet.

Cyclonus didn't even remember standing up. He retreated several steps across the room, putting a safe distance between himself and the minibot, then he started towards the door. He was too shocked to actually process what had just happened. He only knew he wanted to get away before he said something to Tailgate that he would regret.

"Cyclonus, stop! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I thought you were interested, I'm sorry ..." Tailgate was babbling. "Stop, wait, don't go!"

He stopped just shy of the range of door's the electric eye. One more step and it would swish open. Tailgate was sobbing behind him now, and stammering mostly incoherent apologies.

Cyclonus cycled several ventilations through his systems, and then turned. Until recently, he would have left, but Tailgate was his friend. Tailgate obviously wanted more than friendship, however, and Cyclonus didn't know how to deal with that.

"You don't want me, huh." Tailgate's field was wildly distressed. "I thought ... I thought ... I hoped ..."

"Next time," Cyclonus ground out, "use your words. Many misunderstandings can be avoided if you simply ask."

"You don't want me."

Another mech might have responded with kindness and gentle words. Tact, however, was not a word in Cyclonus's vocabulary. He said, simply, "Not like that."

Tailgate crumpled to the ground, keening, hands over his face. "I'm such a fool, I'm an idiot ... I thought you wanted me, I thought we could be kinda like Rewind and Chromedome, I wanted that with you, and you don't, and I'm sorry, I'm an idiot, and ..."

Impatiently, Cyclonus reached down, grabbed him by an arm, and deposited him back on the berth. "Stop that noise."

Tailgate hiccupped to a stop.

"Why?" Cyclonus demanded.

"Because you're big and tall and gorgeous and I want ... I want to do that with you."

"A good enouogh reason were we to have shared mutual attraction," Cyclonus noted, and his words caused Tailgate to brighten instantly. He regretted following that up with, "unfortunately, I do not desire you, Tailgate."

Tailgate burst into keening cries. "But I thought, I thought ..."

"Stop that." Cyclonus said.

"But why don't you want me?"

Cyclonus huffed. "You are not the type of mech I desire in my berth."

"But, but ... I could change my armor maybe, I could change my colors, whatever you want ..."

"Tailgate, no." Cyclonus was rapidly growing more and more upset with the conversation. Worse, Tailgate was hurt, which would normally have him looking for someone to thrash, but he was the cause of that upset. What was he supposed to do, claw his own face again? Been there, and done that, and it would just upset the little mech more. A bit louder than he intended he said, "STOP!"

"But ..."

"I am willing to be your amica, and gladly. That is all."

"My ... amica?"

Cyclonus exented slowly."When you are calm, and willing to discuss it without emotional outbursts, we can plan a public ceremony. Assuming you are willing, of course."

Tailgate's field was full of anxiety and confusion and misery. He tucked his knees to his chest, wrapped his arms around them, and slowly turned away. Cyclonus knew he'd just broken his dearest and only friend's spark. He would die to defend him from any who would hurt him, but what was he supposed to do if he was the cause of the pain?

Perhaps he should just go now. Perhaps he'd been stupid to even suggest amica. A dark voice in his spark murmured that he would only bring Tailgate pain and sorrow. He wasn't the kind of mech who had friends, much less an amica ...

... "Yeah," Tailgate whispered, in the tiniest voice that Cyclonus had ever heard. "Yeah, I'd like that."

Tailgate added, "Can ... can I hug you?"

Cyclonus hesitated for a very long moment. He was worried that it might be a trick; that Tailgate might try to turn the hug into an embrace. He was uneasy with the physical contact after Tailgate's clumsy attempt at seduction. He also wasn't a mech who ever hugged anyone, for any reason, under normal circumstances.

"Please?" Tailgate whispered.

Cyclonus nodded, and approached the berth as if heading to his own execution. Dread filled his spark as he bent over to allow the little mech on the berth to embrace him. However, that fear melted away as Tailgate threw his arms around Cyclonus's neck and squeezed him in a strictly platonic fashion.

"I'm sorry," Tailgate said, in a tiny voice.

"As am I," Cyclonus murmured.

Tailgate let go. Cyclonus immediately stepped back. "I, I need to go," Cyclonus said, and he fled at last, heading out into the hall in a rush.

As their quarter doors slid shut, Tailgate shouted after him, "Don't hurt yourself, Cyclonus! Not again!"

Those words were perhaps the only thing that kept him from savaging himself with his own claws. He'd told Tailgate the truth. He wasn't attracted to the little mech, not the way Tailgate wanted. Nothing Tailgate could do could change that.

It didn't change the fact that Tailgate was hurt, however, and that he was the cause.

* * *

  


Wing stepped into the gymnasium, intending to do some katas and then some sparring with the plentiful assortment of training drones. He'd signed up several members of the crew for sparring practice tomorrow, and so this was intended to be his time to practice alone now. It was very late and nobody was normally here.

As soon as the door slid open, however, he heard the crash of metal on metal. The source was Cyclonus, who was beating the slag out of the toughest training drone, set to the most aggressive setting, available.

Cyclonus's frame was battered, dented, and scraped. The drone didn't look much better. As Wing watched, Cyclonus sent the drone flying into the wall. Sparks sprayed upwards in a blueish white fountain, the scent of hot electrical wiring filled the air, and the drone went dark and still.

Vents heaving, Cyclonus stalked towards it. He poked at it with a claw, then snarled angrily.

"You break my drones, you fix them," Wing said, calmly -- though he felt anything but calm. Cyclonus's rage was palpable from across the room.

Cyclonus startled in reaction to Wing's voice. Normally, the mech was as wary as only a six million year old killing machine could be. He was clearly not in a good state of mind, because he'd not heard Wing enter the room. He spun around, hands dropping to the hilts of his swords. "What do you want?"

"My dojo in one piece." Wing said, walking closer. He and Cyclonus were nearly evenly matched, but he felt no fear of this mech. Cyclonus wouldn't attack him without cause, and he did not intend to give him any reasons. Still, Cyclonus's field was unnervingly angry and full of the blackest of self-hatred.

"Your dojo ...?"

"I just got done talking to Rodimus. He's hiring me on as an instructor for his soldiers." Wing said, keeping his voice calm. He knew that Cyclonus would calm down if he could get him talking. "So I guess I'll be traveling around with you."

Cyclonus's mouth quirked up in what might have been the faintest ghost of a smile. "Good luck with that."

"They are an interesting lot, I'll give them that." Wing was glad that Cyclonus was talking, rather than beating on things. Keeping his voice deliberately casual, he added, "I'm hoping to get home eventually, but I'll tag along with the crew until I find a ride. Theophany's on the other side of the galaxy from here, and I'll need funds to hire a ship. Rodimus is offering decent wages, so it seems like my best choice."

"Drift."

"Huh?"

"Drift is probably paying your wages." Cyclonus said, as he bent over to pick the practice drone up by one arm. "He's funded pretty much everything about our trip."

"... ah." Wing, somehow, wasn't surprised. Some mechanisms who came from extreme poverty found amazing ways to make money, and saved it scrupulously. Drift struck him as that type, and after a few million years of compounding interest, he likely did have a remarkable stash of funds.

Cyclonus slung the drone over his shoulder, and said quietly, "I will repair the drone. I apologize for damaging it."

"Won't be the first or last time. You can fix it tomorrow." Wing caught the drone's other arm, and together, they dragged it off to the storage room. "It's pretty late."

"... I do not wish to go home to my suite," Cyclonus said, after a moment of silence. He glanced over at Wing, then sharply away.

"Trouble with your conjunx?" Wing guessed. The two seemed to be an odd couple, but every time he'd seen them together it was obvious they were close.

"He's not my conjunx, and that is the trouble." Cyclonus again stopped speaking. Wing waited, however, and Cyclonus finally offered up more of an explanation, "Tailgate means a great deal to me but we are not lovers."

Ah. That sounded like about half an explanation for Cyclonus's angst. Wing asked simply, "Why not?"

"I am not attracted to him." Cyclonus said, simply. "He is like a youngling in many ways, including literal operational hours, and that is not something I find attractive in a partner."

"Oh." Well, that explained a lot. It also raised Wing's opinion of the old warrior several notches.

"Unfortunately, he apparently desires me. I hurt his feelings very badly today. I do not know if our friendship will survive it, in the end." Cyclonus deposited the drone on a bench in a storeroom.

"I'm sorry," Wing said, for he didn't know either of them well enough to speculate.

Cyclonus crossed his arms and stared at nothing. His field was drawn in so tight that Wing couldn't feel it from a few feet away, and his expression gave away little as it was his habitual glower.

"I have some engex in my quarters," Wing offered, surprising himself. He was known among the Knights for taking on strays, of course, but Cyclonus really wasn't his usual sort. As far as Wing could tell, Cyclonus was a mech that he would consider a peer rather than a project. He added, "And I have a spare berth, if you need a place to crash for the night."

Cyclonus looked at him. "Why?"

"Because I like you both, and it's probably best if you give Tailgate some time to think about whatever it is you told him."

"I said some things he needed to hear, but they were hard to listen to, and harder to say." Cyclonus frowned more intensely than usual. "You do not mind sharing your quarters with me tonight?"

"Why would I?" He asked, in genuine confusion.

"Some ..." Cyclonus hesitated. "Some think I am a Decepticon, or that I am simply dangerous. I am not trusted by anyone but Tailgate."

Of all the ridiculous things he'd ever heard from the crew of the Light so far, that was at the top of the list. Cyclonus wasn't a threat to anyone who didn't actually make themselves his enemy, and Wing suspected that took some actual effort and planning. Otherwise, he could be slagging intimidating when pissed of, but he wasn't likely to _hurt_ anyone. He seemed like the mech to simply ignore casual insults. "Tell you what, Cyclonus. If you promise not to slay me in my recharge, I won't murder you in yours."

That prompted a very tiny smile. "A deal I will gladly agree to."

* * *

  


Weeks passed, and with them, several adventures. Wing rapidly learned that nothing ever went smoothly or sanely where the crew of the Lost Light was concerned. Still, the pay was good, and he liked his work as a trainer.

He also really liked a few of the crew members. Ratchet and Rung were fun to party with, Drift had come so very far from the half feral Decepticon he'd first met so long ago, Tailgate was a sweet little guy, and he was surprised to find that he liked Megatron as well.

The first time he sparred with Megatron, it drew every single crew member not on an active duty shift. Megatron won, but not without some effort, and Wing was pleased to have lasted as long as he did. Wing also learned a few new moves, and both of them agreed to regular matches.

Cyclonus and Tailgate patched up their relationship, much to Wing's relief. He liked both of them, though he could see where Cyclonus was coming from when it came to Tailgate. The little mech was a good person, with a delightful personality and keen intelligence, but he was just so young. Yes, he was six million years old, but Wing learned that he'd spent six million years in a hole in the ground, in stasis lock. Cyclonus hadn't been exaggerating about him having low operational hours.

And then there was Cyclonus himself, who was tall and serious, but not nearly as taciturn nor grumpy as his reputation.

Wing liked Cyclonus.

Swerve had set up a bar, and most of the crew were regulars in it. Wing scanned the room, noted that the crazy copter was monopolizing the conversation in one section, and the other large group of mecha consisted of Rodimus and his lackeys.

He didn't particularly want to socialize with either group, so he claimed a glass of mid grade and retreated to a booth where he could people watch and wait for one of his friends to show up.

That didn't take long; Cyclonus appeared, and scanned the room before heading in his direction. Wing grinned and waved, then spared a moment's puzzled surprise for the reation of some of the others -- which was to stare, and nudge each other, and whisper, as Cyclonus slid into the booth.

Cyclonus ignored them, and Wing took his cue from that.

"You look shiny again," Wing noted, though that wasn't why the others were gossiping. That had everything to do with the simple fact that Cyclonus was socializing with someone other than Tailgate.

"Tailgate," Cyclonus sighed. "He's insisting I be pretty for our Rite of Amica."

Wing smirked. "You are that."

Cyclonus gave him a particularly dour look. "Thus, I have now achieved one of my greatest goals in life: Staggering and glorious beauty."

Wing cackled. "Welcome to the club."

"A club you are familiar with," Cyclonus snorted, but then he stared at Wing with wide eyes, as if he'd said something he didn't intend to. Abruptly, he rose and stalked to the bar, where he ordered a strong drink.

Wing, optics equally wide, watched him. Neither of them had actually intended to flirt, but somehow, it had happened anyway.

\-----------

Tailgate and Cyclonus held their Rite of Amica Endura in the bar, with quite a few guests. Cyclonus was about as popular as rust, but everyone loved Tailgate, and when he invited people they came.

Wing kept to the back of the crowd, unsure of his standing. His own invitation had come from Cyclonus. He was ... leery ... of interfering in their relationship, and he knew that Cyclonus found him attractive. Aside from the accidental flirting, he'd caught a few whispers of attraction and desire in Cyclonus's field when they sparred. Cyclonus had said nothing, though Wing would have welcomed it if the tall mech had broached the subject.

Tailgate and Cyclonus were amica, but he had not forgotten Cyclonus's disclosure that Tailgate wished for more. Would Tailgate be jealous? He didn't know, and an amica ceremony was not the place nor the time to find out. This was their ceremony, and it would be unforgivably rude if he caused a disruption.

After briefly wishing them well, he excused himself early and returned to his quarters.

* * *

  


Several hours later, someone knocked on his door.

He expected to find Drift, Ratchet or Rodimus outside; they all had a tendency to get drunk and then try to get him to join them in their partying. Sometimes they succeeded. However, when the door slid open, it was Tailgate standing there.

"Can I help you?" He said, a bit worried. Why was Tailgate here?

"Can I come in?"

"Uh, yeah." He stepped back. Tailgate entered, and looked around briefly.

"Wing," Tailgate said, tone very serious, "we noticed you left the party early."

"... yeah. Sorry about that."

"Cyclonus was looking for you. He was worried you were upset about something."

"Nothing happened, Tailgate. I just ..." he wasn't sure how to explain why he'd left early, but he finally settled on, "... it wasn't anything you guys did."

"Cyclonus likes you," Tailgate folded his arms across his chest. "Cyclonus doesn't like anyone and he likes you."

"That surprises me. He's a good mech."

Tailgate glanced up at Wing, then sighed. "Nobody else trusts him, and I don't know why. They'll trust Megatron before they trust him. It makes no sense, y'know? He's not going to be friendly with anyone who doesn't trust him."

"I see," Wing said.

"And he noticed you weren't there and he was hurt, even if he didn't say it."

"I didn't mean to hurt his feelings," Wing said, honestly. He hadn't known Cyclonus would react that way.

Tailgate nodded slowly. "Cyclonus won't admit it if you ask, though. He has to put on this big and tough act, but he's more sensitive than you'd expect. Wing -- he likes you. I mean, he really likes you. He won't say that either, but he does. He likes you the way I wanted him to like me."

"Oh."

"You were the only person he invited. Everyone else? I gave them the invitations." Tailgate was looking up at Wing, now. "And here's the thing. I wanted to be Cyclonus's conjunx, but he's not interested in that. So, he's my best friend, my amica, and I love him and I want him to be happy and his happiness is more important than my feelings, know what I mean?"

"Yeah, yeah I do." Wing's opinion of the little mech skyrocketed upwards. He knelt on one knee, so that they were closer to the same height, and he looked Tailgate in the optics. "I left because I didn't want to risk you being jealous, Tailgate."

"Oh, I'm jealous." Rather than anger, however, that comment was accompanied by a flare of amusement from Tailgate's field. "I'll always be jealous. I wish it was me that he looks at that way, but it's not. Won't ever be. And I tell myself that's okay, because we're still best friends, and we'll always be friends, but ..."

Here, Tailgate trailed off, and looked away. He mumbled, "I wish it was me he wanted like that. I do."

Wing held his arms open, impulsively, and Tailgate stumbled forward into the hug. Tailgate keened softly, and clung to Wing's armor, and Wing held him tight. "I wish it could be me, but it won't be, and I know that. He wants you, Wing, as a lover. He won't say it, he won't ask, he won't approach you, but he wants you."

Tailgate snuffled, then added, "We talk. We do. People think he's always tall and dark and brooding and silent, but get him alone, where he feels safe, and he'll talk. When he talks about you, his eyes light up and he smiles and his field's all warm and relaxed and you can feel the longing in it. He watches you when you walk by, too, and I can feel the attraction and desire and it's aimed at you. He's never felt that way about me. But he wants you."

"I'm sorry." He was. He could hear the pain in Tailgate's voice.

"No, don't be. I want him to be happy. If he's happy with you ... I'm good with that." Tailgate squeezed Wing in a hug that was nearly painful in its strength. "Wing, he's a good mech. He'd make you really happy and you'd make him happy and that would make me happy, because he's my amica and you ... you're my friend too, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I am."

"Good." Tailgate straightened up out of the hug and met Wing's gaze with a very serious look. "Then we understand each other."

"We do. Thank you, Tailgate."

* * *

  


Fifteen minutes after Tailgate left, there was another knock on his door. He was unsurprised to find that it was Cyclonus on his threshold this time.

"Tailgate said I should speak to you," Cyclonus said, a bit stiffly.

"Come on in," he said, feeling a fierce flutter of nerves as he did. Cyclonus's field was drawn so tightly in that he couldn't even feel it, so he assumed that Cyclonus felt the same way. With a grin, Wing added, "I think your amica is meddling."

"I apologize. I will have a word with him." Cyclonus huffed, and started to turn to go.

Wing said a bit sharply, "It's okay. Come in, please."

Cyclonus hesitated.

"Please. We need to talk. And this isn't a discussion I want to have in the hall."

"Very well." Cyclonus stepped through the door, then stood awkwardly in the middle of the room with his arms folded and his jaw set in a hard clench.

"Umm. I guess I should just come right out and say it, because I'm too old to be playing guessing games. Cyclonus, Tailgate says you're attracted to me, and I've picked up the same thing in your field. Is that true?"

Whatever reaction he was expecting, it wasn't for Cyclonus to step backwards away from him. "My apologies. I never wished to make you uncomfortable."

"What?"

"You ... are attractive. Surely, you know that." Cyclonus sighed. "I cannot help my feelings, but I will keep them to myself. Tailgate should not have interfered."

"Haven't you noticed that how I react to you?" Wing replied.

"... yes." Cyclonus admitted. "I have felt certain things in your field. Those feelings are flattering, but you needn't act on them. There are many others who are interested in you, Wing, and I am well aware that I am not a desirable partner for one such as yourself."

"... what?!" he repeated, a bit louder and with more emphasis.

"I should go. I will make sure Tailgate knows he overstepped." Cyclonus shifted his weight, and eyed the door, but he didn't head for it just yet.

"He didn't overstep. We had a good conversation and he clarified a few things. Among them, he loves you so much that he wants to see you with a lover that makes you happy, even if it isn't him. He's a good mech, Cyclonus."

"He is," Cyclonus said, field softening with affection.

"Cyclonus, I like you." Wing stepped forward, and rested a hand on Cyclonus's arm. "You are exactly the sort of partner I am attracted to."

Cyclonus frowned more than usual, then said, "Is that so?"

"It is. You are correct in that I could have many mecha on this ship as lovers. Whirl just propositioned me yesterday ..."

Cyclonus made a noise perilously close to a laugh.

"... and Rodimus hits on me every time I see him."

Cyclonus snorted.

"And Swerve keeps giving me free drinks. I think he's trying to get me drunk enough to say yes."

Cyclonus rolled his optics.

"But First Aid, and Night Beat, and Perceptor, and Velocity have all flirted with me as well. Even Ultra Magnus is attracted. But the thing is? I am not attracted to them." Wing shrugged.

"Hnnh. You would do well with Perceptor. Or Velocity."

He ignored that, saying instead, "And then there's you, and I am very much attracted to you."

Wing slid his hand into Cyclonus's, and laced their fingers together. "You're tall, and dignified, and I love the lines of your frame. You can match me move for move in the training ring, and you're also easy to talk to out of it. Cyclonus, I'm attracted to you in ways that I've never been attracted to anyone before."

Cyclonus replied, voice slow and hesitant, "I ... find you extremely desirable, but it is not your beauty that attracts me. It is your spark as well. I ... find these things difficult to speak of, but perhaps they need to be said."

"Mmmhmm." Wing rested his free hand on Cyclonus's arm. "There's also a time to stop talking. I want you. You want me. We don't need to overthink this, Cyclonus."

"Yes," Cyclonus agreed, simply, and he pulled his hand free of Wing's grasp so that he could rest both hands on Wing's hips. They stared at each other for a moment, blue optics meeting crimson, and Cyclonus's thumbs swirled small circles on Wing's hips.

Wing pressed closer. Cyclonus bent over and kissed him, at first tentatively, but then when Wing arched up into his embrace, with passion.

Somehow, they quickly ended up on the berth, with Cyclonus seated and Wing straddling his legs. This put them on the same height, and Wing happily explored the taller mech's battle-hardened armor and the wires and struts and bits of protoform that he could reach beneath it.

Cyclonus stroked and teased and touched Wing's frame with his knuckles, claws carefully held out of the way. Wing, realizing Cyclonus's concern, caught one hand, and sucked a claw into his mouth. He suckled at the claw, and then kissed Cyclonus's knuckles, and then nuzzled the palm of his hand. Razor sharp claw tips brushed his cheek, and he did not flinch. "You won't hurt me. I trust you."

Those claws could tear metal apart, but Cyclonus was gentle with them as he explored Wing's frame with more confidence. Wing suspected that Cyclonus was not afraid of hurting Wing with them -- - he'd worn those claws a long, long time and had incredibly fine control -- but he had been afraid that he would frighten Wing.

Wing trusted him. In everything.

Then Cyclonus pressed a kiss to Wing's helm, and his hands stilled, though both of them were panting with desire and arousal. "I do not know if you prefer your spike or your valve."

"My spike, usually," Wing said, even as his automonics kicked in and his spike rose of its own volition. He was eager.

Something akin to relief filled Cyclonus's field. "We are more compatible than I expected."

He hadn't anticipated that Cyclonus was a valve mech. Wing had assumed they were both spike dominant, which meant they would have to either take turns, or get creative. It was not an insurmountable issue, if both mecha were willing to compromise, but it could be awkward at times.

When he pushed Cyclonus back onto the berth, the bigger mech eagerly spread his legs. Wing settled between them, and stroked Cyclonus's panels with his hand until they opened. Cyclonus's spike rose, tall and dark with crimson biolights, and Wing slid down to take it into his mouth.

Cyclonus cried out, shock and surprise and arousal filling his field. Clearly, he hadn't expected this from Wing. His hips twitched upwards, but Wing had been expecting that, and he didn't gag. He took the spike in deeply, hands resting on Cyclonus's hips, fingers finding sensors and neural lines as he suckled and licked.

With a shout, Cyclonus came, and Wing nearly did as well from the effect of the hot hard flare of Cyclonus's field. Panting, he came up for air, and Cyclonus was watching him, mouth parted to show razor sharp teeth, and optics dim from the the effects of the overload.

Long claws roamed painlessly over Wing's arms, and Cyclonus's fans howled as he struggled to cool himself.

When Wing entered him, Cyclonus cried out, and clutched at Wing's shoulders without ever leaving so much as a scratch to his paint. Cyclonus hitched his legs up, however, and wrapped them around Wing's waist, and encouraged him with a tight hold to go deeper. "Harder," he cried, "harder!"

Wing thrust into Cyclonus's surprisingly tight valve until he bottomed out. Cyclonus groaned, and the walls of the valve fluttered just before he came again with a shout and a surge of his hips upward. The tightness, and the heat, and the strength of his field brought Wing over, and he spilled in a hot, thick rush.

After, when they could both see and think again, he lay between Cyclonus's legs, head on his chest, one hand tracing circles on the shiny purple armor. "That was amazing," Wing said.

"Hnnh."

"You are amazing," Wing added.

"As are you," Cyclonus said, as he wrapped one arm around Wing's back and he shifted a bit to get more comfortable.

"Stay with me tonight?" Wing added, because he couldn't imagine anything better. Cyclonus's field, and the warmth of his systems, and the comfort of his arms, all lent themselves to a feeling of incredible rightness.

"Tonight. And many nights to come," Cyclonus promised, as he stroked Wing's helm with careful claws.

Wing's last thought, as he drifted off into recharge, was that he was truly looking forward to a life with the old warrior. He held him tight, and fell into a deep, dreamless recharge.

Cyclonus didn't recharge for a long, long time that night. He was smiling, however, as he held Wing close and slowly stroked a hand, over and over again, down the Knight's pristine white plating. 


End file.
